Death in Autumn Page 9

  'If you didn't do it, what are you so afraid of? What were you looking for in her room tonight?'

  'Nothing.'

  'And last time? Were you looking for nothing then, too? It was you who searched the room the other time, wasn't it?'

  'I don't ... I can't remember.'

  'What were you looking for tonight?'

  'Nothing. I swear it's the truth.'

  'I'm going to take that room apart until I find what you were after. If it's there, I'll find it. That can only make things worse for you.'

  'I can't help it. I'm telling the truth. I wasn't looking for anything.'

  'And you didn't see anything. Who came to see Hilde Vogel the night she died—somebody you know?'

  'No.'

  'Somebody you don't know? A boy or a man? Which?'

  'I didn't see anything! How can I tell you what I didn't see?'

  The Captain slammed his hand down on the warrant. 'Do you know what you're doing? If you swear nobody came to see her that night you're leaving yourself as the only suspect!'

  'Nobody can prove I killed her when I didn't.'

  'No. Nobody could prove you attacked that woman in Milan if you didn't. Did that prevent you losing your job?'

  'No.' He was trembling now and his lips were dry and caked.

  The Captain rang a bell. 'Bring some water and two glasses.'

  As soon as Querci had drunk a little of the water he went on with the questioning even though he had little hope of getting anywhere. If the porter had invented some story, any story, it would have been easy to break him down, but he invented nothing. He went on saying 'I don't know,' 'I don't remember,' 'I didn't see anything.'

  After repeating himself and hearing the same answers for a further hour, the Captain decided that a night in the cells might have more effect. Before they took Querci away he asked him, 'Do you want to telephone your wife?'

  'Am I under arrest?'

  'Yes.'

  Querci's face became even more pallid as though he might vomit or even faint, and he wouldn't have been the first to have done so in those circumstances. But all he said was, 'No. She won't be expecting me home until morning, anyway. What's the use of waking her?'

  'Take him away.'

  The Captain went back to the window and rubbed wearily at his face. It was after three in the morning and the street was silent now in the yellow lamplight. Under one of the lamps a man was hovering, hands deep in his pockets, staring up at the window.

  'For God's sake . . .!' He turned and picked up the telephone. 'If that's Galli down there, don't let him come up. Tell him to come back tomorrow.'

  'I've already told him, sir.'

  'Well, he's still out there. Tell him again. I'm going to bed.'

  It wasn't that Guarnaccia ever had much to say for himself but this morning he was singularly silent. He sat beside the Captain in the back of the car with his hands planted on his knees, staring ahead behind his dark glasses. Once they were past the village of Greve he leaned forward slightly every so often to tell the driver which way to turn.

  All the way up from Florence the Captain had tried to draw him out on the Mario Querci business but all he said was, 'Have you arrested him?'

  'I had no choice.'

  'He's not likely to come out with anything to the Substitute Prosecutor this morning?'

  'I'm sure he won't.'

  After which he had offered nothing more than noncommittal monosyllables and grunts. He seemed satisfied that they were going out to the villa but that was all.

  'Left here.'

  The car turned on to a lane that wound between vineyards where the harvest had begun and every now and then they passed two lines of men and women snipping at the heavy bunches of grapes while a tractor chugged along at the end of the rows. A white car was coming towards them in the narrow lane and their driver slowed and nosed into a grassy lay-by. The other car drew level and stopped, the driver leaning over to call out.

  'Good morning!'

  The Captain wound his window down. 'Galli! One of these days you'll really go too far!'

  'Couldn't sleep,' said the reporter sheepishly. 'Seriously, if I were in your place I'd arrest that lad Sweeton. He's a born liar.'

  'Unfortunately, I can't arrest him for that.'

  'Drugs, then. Take my word for it, I know one when I see one. Cocaine. Christ, you could get drunk breathing the air round here.'

  Rivulets of wine-coloured water were trickling from a nearby farmhouse into the ditch running along the lane and there was so much fermentation in the air that it really was intoxicating.

  'I heard you arrested the night porter.'

  'I've no doubt you did. But don't start speculating in print, not now, I'm warning you.'

  'Warning taken. Even so, nobody believes he did it, I can tell you that for free. When are you giving us something we can print on this drugs case?'

  'When I've got something to give you. Now get out of my way, you're blocking the road.'

  'Pleasure. I'm off to bed. But I still think you should arrest that little sod or he'll skip the country.' And Galli drove away, spraying up wine-stained gravel.

  The villa looked as deserted as ever when they got there, and the silence was so profound that they could hear in the distance the grape pickers calling for their full baskets to be collected. Nevertheless, this time there was a face at the first-floor window where the shutter was broken, watching their arrival. It had vanished when they got out of the car.

  'Wait here,' the Captain told his driver and he approached the front door, the Marshal following behind. The rusted iron bell-pull produced a slow jangling noise. After a few moments a voice from behind the door said, 'You have to come round the back.'

  When they got there John Sweeton was waiting in the kitchen doorway. 'The front door doesn't open.' He stood back to let them in. Even before he had spoken the Marshal noticed a difference in his attitude. He was very pale and he watched them nervously as they walked in.

  'Just what exactly is going on? I've had a journalist here pestering me. I warn you now that my father . . .' He tailed oil as the Captain stopped and looked him in the face.

  'We have a warrant to search this house.'

  'Well, if that's all 'I don't know,' the Captain said quietly, 'whether that's all or not. We'll start with your room if you'd like to lead the way.'

  The boy hesitated as though he were going to say something, but he must have thought better of it. He turned and led them out of the sunny kitchen and up the gloomy staircase. Once they were all three in his room he stood still, watching them warily.

  'Has your friend Christian come back?' asked the Captain.

  'I don't remember saying he was a friend of mine. He was staying here, that's all.'

  'Was? I thought he was still staying here?'

  'How should I know? His things are still here. His comings and goings are nothing to do with me.' His eyes continually strayed from the Captain to the Marshal, who was moving slowly around the room touching nothing, just looking, his sunglasses dangling from one hand.

  'When did you last see him?'

  'I can't remember. Some time ago.'

  'How long?'

  'I don't know. Why should I—'

  'How long? A month? Two months?'

  'Something like that. I've forgotten.'

  'One month or two?'

  'I suppose nearer two.'

  The Marshal had come across a copy of the Nazione under the bed and was turning its pages slowly. The room smelled strongly of oil paint and turpentine.

  The boy had placed himself in front of the easel that stood in the middle of the floor. The landscape was still propped there, the shaft of sunlight from the window falling full on it. The Marshal found the page he was looking for, folded the paper and showed it to the Captain, who glanced only at the headline before giving it back without comment.

  'You haven't asked us why we're here,' the Captain observed. 'Aren't you interested?'

&nb
sp; 'It's nothing to do with me.'

  'How can you be so sure of that?'

  'Because I haven't done anything.'

  'And you don't know anything either, I imagine.'

  'That's right.'

  The Marshal opened a drawer and shut it again without looking at the contents. He seemed to be wandering about the room in an entirely haphazard way. Every time he passed close to where the Captain and the boy were standing the latter exhibited a greater nervousness. He had his hands in his jacket pockets as if to look relaxed, but the hands were tightly clenched. The Marshal retreated to one corner of the room, stuffed his glasses into his pocket and stood watching.

  'What have you just taken?' the Captain went on.

  'I don't know what you mean.' But the Captain was staring straight into the tiny pupils of his eyes and the boy realized it.

  'That journalist upset you, did he?'

  'He had no right to come prying round here.'

  'What did he ask you?'

  'There's no reason why I should tell you. Ask him.'

  'What did he ask you?' The Captain raised his voice just a little.

  'The same things you're asking—about the woman who owned this villa.'

  'But I haven't asked you anything about the owner of the villa. I asked you about your friend Christian.'

  'He's not my friend!'

  'What has he got to do with the owner?'

  'Nothing. I don't know.'

  'Then why did you think I was interested in the owner when I asked you about Christian? Marshal!'

  Given that the Marshal had stopped looking, he must have found what he wanted.

  Guarnaccia came forward, striding heavily towards the boy and the easel behind him. The boy started and his hand shot out of his pocket in an involuntary movement which knocked a tray of paints and brushes from the easel's ledge to the floor, scattering tubes and bottles.

  'Leave it,' the Marshal said as the boy made to pick the things up. 'Leave it there, lad, and I'll pick them up for you.' But he only picked up the paint-stained box and began examining it carefully. It was divided into compartments of various sizes. A tiny brown paper package was stuffed into one of them. The Marshal removed it carefully and took off the brown paper to reveal a little polythene bag. It was no more than two inches square and had been rolled tightly. The Marshal unrolled it, took a few of the tiny crystals on one fingertip and tasted them. Then he rolled the bag up again and slipped it into his top pocket.

  'Is there any more of it?' the Captain asked the boy.

  'No. I've only ever bought it for my own use and you can't—'

  'All right. You're well-informed about the laws of this country, I'm sure. But then you read the papers, don't you? We'll have a look at your friend Christian's room now.'

  The boy led the way without a word but they could hear his shallow, rapid breathing.

  The Marshal went straight to the other boy's bedside table and examined the shrivelled halves of lemon, the belt, a teaspoon and a cigarette lighter. Then he began searching the room, this time systematically.

  'Whatever Christian did it's nothing to do with me.'

  'Then let the Marshal get on with his job and mind your own business,' the Captain said. 'And meantime, you tell me just what Christian did. Bear in mind that we know about him and Signora Vogel.'

  'I wasn't involved.'

  'Then you've got nothing to worry about. You're just helping us with our inquiries.'

  The Marshal was heaving the mattress off the bed. His face was as expressionless as ever but his movements had a ponderous sureness that determined the Captain to take a risk.

  'We've found Christian's body,' he said.

  The boy swallowed with some difficulty. He didn't speak and his eyes were fixed on the moving bulk of the Marshal who had uncovered two small bags that were taped to the underside of the bed's base. The Captain propelled Sweeton towards the bed and the three of them stood looking in silence, the Marshal puffing a little after his exertions. The air was full of revolving dust.

  'We're not going to touch those two packets,' the Captain observed, 'until we get our technicians out here to examine them.'

  'What Christian did in here is nothing to do with me.'

  'Of course not. I'm interested in what you did in here. No doubt that packet there which is thickly covered in dust contains heroin and has been there since Christian left. But the other one at a guess has been there about half an hour. That journalist did give you a fright, didn't he?'

  'It's nothing to do with me.'

  'No? But what if that packet contains cocaine. Christian wasn't on cocaine.'

  'You can't prove that.'

  'Remember we've found his body.'

  'You still can't prove it. The paper said that the head was—'

  'The paper said? The papers don't know anything about Christian.'

  'You two were just looking at the article in my room.'

  'The boy we found up near the fort? But the paper didn't say who it was. They don't know. How do you know that was Christian?'

  'Because you said so before, that you'd found his body.'

  'I didn't say it was that body. I wonder if we'll find your fingerprints on that packet.'

  'You won't. And this is not my room. Anything you find in here—'

  'That's true. Of course there's nothing to prevent us from finding both those packets in your room.'

  'You try anything like that and I'll call my father. I warn you! My father's a judge. You won't get away with anything like that.'

  'Your father's not a judge in this country, fortunately for him. I'm afraid he would be embarrassed to have his son in a situation like this if he were.'

  'I'm not in any situation. Christian—'

  'Christian is dead,' said the Captain quietly, 'and the owner of this villa is dead, and the only person who had any connection with them is you. You are in a situation all right but perhaps you haven't realized yet that we're not talking about drugs but about murder. So it might be as well to call your father anyway.'

  If Galli had told him about the arrest of the night porter the Captain would put him inside! But the boy's pale face had reddened in panic and his eyes began darting about the room as if he might make a run for it. The Marshal moved one step closer so that he was practically touching him. Galli hadn't told about the porter.

  'I think you'd better come with us,' the Captain went on, 'and we'll talk about it in my office.'

  'You can't arrest me without evidence.'

  'I'm not arresting you. According to you, only Christian was involved. But Christian's dead and can't tell us about it. Nor can anyone else. If you know anything you'd be well advised to tell us all about it because otherwise we're going to think it was you, aren't we?'

  'I'm calling my father.'

  'I've already told you that you'd better call your father. You can do that from my office. I'd like to talk to him, too. I shall need to ask him how much money he's been sending you all year for one thing. Shall we go?'

  The boy was put in the back of the car with the Marshal. They travelled along the ochre lanes between vineyards, through the tranquil bustle of the piazza at Greve and down to the city where a snarl of traffic was righting to get in at the Roman gates. Throughout the journey the boy didn't open his mouth.

  When they reached Borgo Ognissanti one of the guards came out to the car to tell the Captain there was someone waiting for him.

  'I'm not seeing any journalists.'

  'It's a woman, sir.' The guard consulted a slip of paper. 'A Signora Vogel. She's here in the waiting-room if you want her to go up with you.'

  CHAPTER 9

  'There's somebody with her,' the guard added, 'a lawyer. Do you want me to . . .'

  But the Captain had jumped out of the car, waving it on, and was hurrying round to the waiting-room entrance on the right. Unreasonably, he was half expecting to see the thin, blonde woman, to meet that ironic blue-eyed glance. But when he stopped in the e
ntrance he saw a woman of well over sixty years, sitting stiffly on the worn wooden bench with a big, thick-set man beside her. It was the man who got up to introduce himself.

  'Captain Maestrangelo? Avvocato Heer. I think we spoke on the telephone. This is Signora Vogel, my client's mother-in-law.'

  'We'd better talk in my office.' The Captain led the way along the cloister and up the stairs without further comment. He was trying to decide rapidly whether to make them wait while he went on questioning Sweeton or whether this woman could tell him anything useful that would help him put pressure on the boy. By the time they had reached his office where the Marshal and Sweeton were waiting at the door he had made his decision.

  He signed to Guarnaccia to take the boy next door and showed the two visitors inside.

  'Please sit down.'

  The lawyer spoke to the woman in German and she sat down without answering, holding tightly on to the large handbag placed squarely on her knees. The Captain realized that she was probably much older than he had first thought but the mass of tiny wrinkles covering her whole face was thickly coated with face powder. Her bright little eyes were observing him coldly.

  'You are Hilde Vogel's mother-in-law?' he began.

  She turned to the lawyer who translated the question for her. She answered him with a one word affirmative.

  She maintained this attitude throughout the interview, never troubling again to look the Captain in the face and staring out of the window if he and the lawyer spoke in Italian, as if a foreign language could have no relevance for her. After giving her name as Hannah Kiefer Vogel, and her place of residence as Mainz, she suddenly interrupted and began to speak for herself, pausing occasionally, with evident irritation, to let Avvocato Heer translate.

  'I came here as soon as my bank manager informed me about what had happened. I may as well say immediately that my daughter-in-law has caused nothing but trouble in our family since the day my son was foolish enough to marry her. Consequently, the way she died comes as no surprise to me. You will understand when I say that she wasn't our sort, not our sort at all. The Vogel family is much respected in Mainz. Both my husband and my father-in-law were mayors of the city. My own father was a lawyer of some considerable repute. I can safely say that if my husband had been alive my son's marriage would never have taken place. Unfortunately, my husband left his entire estate to our son, giving me nothing more than a moderate income from the capital and the right to reside in the house for my lifetime. The result was that I was obliged to share my home with a shopgirl. Please understand that I am not simply being abusive, this woman worked in a shop owned by a friend of my son's. That was how they met, and in my opinion there was something going on between her and Becker even then. If I tell you that my son hadn't been dead six months when Becker started coming to the house—you can imagine my feelings. I wasn't going to accept that sort of thing under my own roof and I made myself plain on that from the beginning. Nevertheless—'